


Doctor Who and the Invasion of the Smol Beans (a.k.a. Smol Bean III)

by TheSaddleman



Series: Smol Bean [3]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Apologies, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Humour, Polar Bears - Freeform, Romance, WhouffaldiWeek2017, a little innuendo, keeping secrets, nanaimo bars, references to past stories, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-12 07:06:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10485162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSaddleman/pseuds/TheSaddleman
Summary: Clara Oswald's friend, Nina, strikes again as she ropes Clara and the Doctor into helping to advertise an imported Canadian confection on the banks on the Thames, which involves Clara having to get into character in a way she doesn't appreciate. Hint: a polar bear costume is involved. That's only the beginning of what becomes a surprisingly enlightening Saturday afternoon for Clara. A contribution for Whouffaldi Week 2017.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [UniverseOnHerShoulders](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/gifts).



> Although work on this story began before the parameters were announced, this story is being uploaded as part of #WhouffaldiWeek2017, Day 1, which included the following prompts which are requested to be included:
> 
> Place: Caretaker Shed  
> Objects or things: broom, bucket, intruder  
> A quote: "I don't remember leaving that out."
> 
> I freely admit this story's connection to WW2017 is tenuous at best, but I'm happy to do my part.
> 
> As for the story itself, Nanaimo bars are real as any paid-up Canadian will tell you. So are polar bear costumes, as this story is very loosely based upon my own personal experience at being recruited to don a polar bear costume and go walking up and down a street during the hottest day of the year.
> 
> Gifted to Universe On Her Shoulders in thanks for her providing some brilliant beta reading!

“Hello, Miss Oswald!”

The Doctor didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as the dark-haired teenaged girl—a student from Coal Hill School, of course—gave a cheery wave, accepted the square, tightly wrapped treat he’d retrieved from the blue cool-box on the table next to him, gave Clara another wave, and moved on, putting her mobile to her ear and talking animatedly to whomever answered.

Clara, meanwhile, was not faced with a choice nearly as complex as the Doctor’s. She wasn’t laughing. Not at all. She wasn’t exactly crying, either. More like she was plotting the different ways of using a time machine to get away with murder.

No, Clara Oswald hadn’t just suddenly been taken over by the spirit of the Valeyard. But _you_ try to be non-murderous of mood while walking up and down the South Bank by the Thames in the heat of mid-summer. Carrying a sign advertising Polar Bear-brand Nanaimo bars. With students from your school passing by, all recognizing you and giving you cheery greetings that perhaps feel a bit _too_ cheery.

How the hell could they recognize her? She _was_ wearing a full top-to-bottom polar bear costume, after all.

Oh, yeah … the polar bear costume. Nearly forgot that part. Clara certainly wished _she_ could.

“I’m going to kill Nina, slow and painfully. Do you know where we can rent a Dalek? Daleks are good for this sort of thing, right?” Clara grumbled as the Doctor finally decided laughter would be his chosen course of action. “Are you laughing at me? Do you really want to regenerate ahead of schedule?”

“I’m sorry, Clara, but you have to admit you look ridiculous.” The fact the Doctor was encumbered with a slightly heavier than expected cooler filled with said Nanaimo bars, making him slightly less graceful than usual, meant no never mind.

“I feel ridiculous. How do I let Nina talk me into doing these things?” Clara shrugged. Of course, being inside a rather bulky polar bear costume, she could have twerked and neither the Doctor nor any other onlooker would have been able to tell the difference, so we’ll have to take her word for it that she actually shrugged as we try to get the image of a twerking polar bear out of our collective consciousness.

“Well, Clara, at least it’s not me this time. Recording a TV advert, posing for the cover of a weddings magazine. I mean, the things she’s made me do. Totally unbecoming of The Oncoming Storm, if you ask me.”

The polar bear head swivelled in the Doctor’s general direction. “You do remember that I had to do all those things, too, right?”

“But Nina is _your_ friend. You’re used to her … eccentricities,” the Doctor grumped. “And I’ve seen those photos of you at uni- _ow!_.” The Doctor rubbed his bicep where the polar bear had thumped him.

“You’re only lucky there was just this size of costume left, otherwise you’d be the one melting and acting the fool,” Clara said. The Doctor shuddered a little as he agreed he had indeed dodged a bullet.

***

_Earlier that day…_

Nina’s modus operandi was the usual. _Too_ usual, as the Doctor was pretty certain Clara’s friend was just coming up with excuses to get the two of them made fools of. Again.

But, even by Nina’s standards, promoting Polar Bear-brand Nanaimo bars was a weird one. Nina’s husband, a Zygon refugee who went by the name of Ernie (don’t laugh; remember, a Zygon named Bonnie nearly sparked a revolution a while back), had grown tired of his day job as Nina’s assistant, so, after the honeymoon he’d gotten himself (and a good chunk of his and Nina’s savings) tied up with a company that was trying to break into the UK market with a custard, chocolate and wafer confection invented in Canada called Nanaimo bars, which the Doctor had promptly declared as being more evil than Nutella (though thankfully without the hazelnut ingredient that had the same effect on him that two bottles of Rioja had on Clara). Clara, for her part, had declared it difficult to come to a proper conclusion on Nanaimo bars based upon only three samples, but made a mental note to run a little harder next time she and the Doctor were being chased by monsters, to burn off the calories, as she tried her fourth.

“So here’s the plan,” Nina had said. “The weather forecast is calling for it to be hellishly hot this afternoon, so, obviously, what better time to hand out free samples of these down by the Thames?”

At this point, Clara was all for Nina’s plan. As long as she (and the Doctor, who seemed to quite enjoy the “evil” confection) got a chance to sample more Nanaimo bars, everything was groovy.

The Doctor, for his part, had an idea formulating in his head about taking a bucket of Nanaimo bars with him next time he and Clara ended up on some alien world where the residents were unfriendly. If nothing else, it would distract them long enough (as in “Why did the funny-looking intruder and his tiny companion just leave a bucket of food in the middle of the street? Oh my god, these are fantastic!” distracted) for him and Clara to get away.

Things became less-groovy, as in Cheeky Girls less-groovy, when Nina revealed the rest of her diabolical master plan. It wasn’t enough for them to just stand on a street corner and hand out Nanaimo bars to curious passers-by. Oh, _nooo_ … they needed to “represent the brand,” Nina had said. That meant someone (spelled D-O-C-T-O-R, for the record) had to put on a polar bear costume and carry a sign, which was basically just a cardboard placard saying “POLAR BEAR” attached to a broom handle; the only thing missing was an arrow pointing down for anyone who didn’t get the hint. There was a shop a few blocks away from Nina’s flat that rented the costumes out for birthday parties, wildlife preservation fund-raisers and, uh … other events. “But don’t worry, the suits are dry-cleaned thoroughly,” Nina added quickly as the Doctor nearly choked on his Nanaimo bar. 

“No, Clara, I’m not doing it,” he said, anticipating the request. “In fact … oh my giddy aunt, is that my sonic buzzing? The TARDIS needs me. There’s a … thing … in the … thing…”

But Clara had already cranked her big brown eyes to DEFCON 2 and the Doctor knew he was a goner.

“Me dressing as a polar bear, eh? Could be worse.”

***

_An hour later…_

“Oh, this is so much worse,” Clara moaned as she held up the polar bear costume she was going to have to wear and wondered how she would ever live it down.

The Doctor bit back a laugh. Seems there had been a university party or something the night before and the Doctor-sized polar bear costume the shop had rented out had come back … well, let’s just say “slightly altered.” The party had been held by engineering students; we’ll leave the details of said alterations as a matter for the proclivities of one’s own imagination. To cut a long story short, there was no way the shop was going to rent the costume out to be worn by a distinguished—if slightly manic-looking—grey-haired gentleman in public. And the aforementioned distinguished—if slightly manic-looking—grey-haired gentleman had _no_ intention of donning such gear in public. Caligula-era Rome, maybe. Modern-day London … no.

That left two other costumes family-friendly enough for rental. One was the wrong type of bear; it was a black bear and, anyway, it was child-sized and might have just barely accommodated a Graske on tip-toe. The other was the proper species at least, but it was labelled “petite” and it didn’t take a mathematical genius to quickly figure out that, of the two members of Team TARDIS, only one was going to fit into it.

“Shut up,” Clara said to the Doctor as she handed him the polar bear head to carry and bundled the rest of the gear into her arms after she’d paid the deposit and rental fee.

“I never said anything!”

“Exactly.”

***

_Ten minutes later..._

The Doctor landed the TARDIS with disgustingly spot-on accuracy, right at the very minute Clara was due to make her arctic bruin debut, and exactly where he’d aimed—an alleyway a couple of blocks away from the part of the South Bank Nina had requested, behind a structure that looked a bit like a caretaker’s shed. The shed will play no further role in this story, so feel free to ignore it. Really.

“I tried to miss, honest,” the Doctor lied as Clara grumped about why he couldn’t have accidentally detoured them into the Middle Ages or the planet Vulcan (the real one; not the one they made up for _Star Trek_ ), but _nooooo_ , he had to be accurate and on time for once. 

With a huff …

… “You know, Clara, you’re not actually supposed to say ‘huff’ when you do that,” the Doctor had called after her…

… “Shut up” …

… Clara had gone into the TARDIS wardrobe and changed into the costume. She emerged looking like the result of a deranged cloning experiment. From the neck up, she was her usual dark-haired, wide-eyed self (though slightly more terrifying than usual, given her current mood). From the neck down, however, she looked like an escapee from an _Ice Age_ pantomime, mixed in with a bit of circus contortionist as she tried without success to reach behind herself to do up the zipper. “Doctor, I need your help. I can’t reach the zip. Could you…”

The Doctor motioned for her to turn around and tried to ignore the glimpse of blue sports bra visible between where the two halves of the costume met. “You know, Clara, there’s an entire race of beings on Sirius IV who can detach their right arms like a shower wand for this very purpose.”

“And you’re just making that up.”

“Yes. Yes, I am. But wouldn’t it be great? Scratching the middle of your back would be a doddle.” The zip zipped. “OK, you’re set.”

Clara held the polar bear head out in front of her, Yorick-style, and studied what was to become her new face for the next little bit. “Doctor, I don’t suppose you-”

“-have a polar bear costume my size hidden away in the wardrobe? Clara, I have outfits from ten thousand different worlds stored away, and another million available for 3-D printing, if you like. I can assure you—polar bear costumes do not number among them. Now, if this had been ‘Yogi Bear and Boo-Boo’-brand Nanaimo bars, now we’d be talking.”

Clara nearly dropped the head as she laughed. “You have a Yogi Bear costume?”

“And a Boo-Boo.”

“That’s next Halloween sorted, then,” she snorted. “Do I want to know why you have Yogi Bear and Boo-Boo costumes?”

“I remain a man of mystery, Clara.”

“Black Archive.”

The Doctor sighed. “Black Archive. Filed under-”

“-UNIT Christmas Parties. What else?” Clara laughed, which only served to distract her for a few moments before her inner voice reminded her she was about to make a bloody fool of herself in front of hundreds, maybe thousands of people in central London.

“Smol bean,” she intoned to herself. “Let me be a smol bean. Small and mighty. Smol bean.” She popped on the polar bear head. “OK,” she said to the Doctor, “now I’m a polar bear. Let’s do this.”

***

_Now._

“Hello, Miss Oswald,” said yet _another_ Coal Hill student as they passed by Clara and the Doctor’s location on the South Bank. What was worse, Clara didn’t even recognize this one. What was this, the dozenth student in the last twenty minutes? And every one of them had said “Hello, Miss Oswald” in the same, completely nonchalant voice, but she could tell they were breaking into laughter as soon as they were out of earshot. 

“I’m going to kill Nina,” Clara repeated as the Doctor handed the most recent student a Nanaimo bar. The student took it with one hand while tapping her thumb on the keypad of her mobile with the other. “Where are all these students coming from? I mean, Shoreditch is miles away! It’s almost like a conspiracy.”

“Polar bear paranoia!” the Doctor chuckled.

“I am not paranoid!” Clara said, a bit louder than she intended to. She realized this because she timed that outburst for one of those insanely random moments where every other sound-making source in the world decides to momentarily go stone-quiet at the same time. The polar bear head hid her deep blush as she saw parents, kids, and an old pensioner playing with a remote-controlled model car turn and look at her.

The Doctor just smiled and waved at the people.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Clara mumbled.

“Oh, you have no idea.”

“I still want to know how the students knew I was doing this.”

***

_Twenty-four hours earlier._

Courtney Woods was not looking forward to another boring Saturday. Most Saturdays were boring, and she had no reason to expect the next Saturday to be any less boring than the others. And it didn’t help that it was going to be hot as hell outside. She expected to spend the day sitting in front of a fan and binge-watching _Walking Dead_ until her brain melted. 

Right now, though, she was just looking forward to lunch after an hour of Miss Oswald gushing on about Jane Austen during her Friday English class. Again. Seriously, there were other British writers, but _nooo_ , Austen had to be the one Miss Oswald had a crush on.

“Oh my, I don’t remember leaving that out!” she had said as she pretended the photograph of her hugging Jane that she’d left on her desk—facing the students, of course—wasn’t intended to be there. Courtney, having “enjoyed” a couple of trips in the TARDIS in the past (well, future; you know what I mean), was perfectly aware it was just Miss Oswald showing off. Everyone else assumed it came from some _Pride and Prejudice_ festival and rolled their eyes. Again. 

Courtney’s mobile chimed. She was getting a WhatsApp.

     _Good morning, Courtney._

**Hey. Who’s this?**

     _A friend of Clara’s._

**Doctor?**

     _No._

     _But I have news you’ll be interested in._

     _Tomorrow she’ll be on the South Bank_

     _Dressed up as a polar bear._

**Who?**

     _The One with the…_

     _Clara Oswald, I mean._

**You taking the piss?**

     _No._

     _She and the Doctor will be on the South Bank at noon._

     _He’ll be handing out something called a Nanaimo bar._

     _You are supposed to ingest it apparently._

     _I wouldn’t know._

     _She thinks she will be in disguise, but we know better._

     _So be sure to go and say hello to her._

     _And spread the word._

     _So others can go and enjoy the show, too._

     _Just don’t let her know I told you._

Courtney sent back the most sinister-looking wink emoji she could think of and started to spread the word.

Meanwhile, a day later, as she waited for Her Thief and the One with the Eyes (and soon a polar bear costume) to return from the rental shop, the TARDIS terminated the connection to Courtney’s WhatsApp and flashed her console lights in a loose approximation of, “Heh, heh, heh.”

***

“OK, this is getting really annoying and I’m overheating,” Clara said. She’d flipped the bear head up slightly to expose her mouth and was taking a sip from a water bottle. The Doctor had to hold it for her; a clear plastic bottle lying on its side on the ground about ten feet away was evidence of Clara’s previous attempt to grasp a water bottle using the costume’s paws, which were clearly not designed to hold anything slightly slippery (get your mind out of the gutter, this is a PG-rated story. For now). “And would it have killed you to remember to bring a straw?”

“Polar bears are notoriously grumpy,” said the Doctor. “Nice to see you’re getting into character.”

“Polar bears are not notoriously grumpy.”

“But what about Grumpy International Polar Bear Day?”

“You’re just making that up.”

“Am not. Google it.”

“Are too. Please, tell me we’re almost through the Nanaimo bars.”

“Just a few left.”

“Thank god. And you owe me for this.” She nodded to the Doctor to let her take one last swig of the water.

“ _I_ owe you? What for?”

“For not talking me out of this.”

“Why? I think it’s great.”

“You would,” Clara frowned as she popped the head down over her mouth.

“Clara, you know as well as I do that there are worlds where life is just so serious, so dull, so awful. Of all the planets I’ve seen, Earth is still the only one where a scenario as silly as this is even possible.”

Clara cocked her head. “What about Beep Beep?”

“Who? The Road-Runner?”

“No! You know, Beep Beep. The Most-High? The intergalactic criminal who looks like a cross between a bunny rabbit and Grumpy Cat?”

The Doctor looked a bit uncertain until his mental rolodex spun around to the right business card. “Oh, Beep the Meep! Yes, well, he was a special case. And how do you know about Beep the Meep, anyway?”

“Black Archive.”

“Black Archive,” the Doctor repeated as he passed out another Nanaimo bar. “I shudder to think what’s in the Black Archive, Clara. Come to think of it, when we dropped off that Mire helmet a while back I noticed some things in the files I don’t remember giving UNIT. Beep the Meep, the Krotons, Mestor, Sil, Kandyman, that giant robot dinosaur I travelled with for a while. All the weird stuff was showing up, none of it having anything to do with Earth or UNIT. It’s almost as if somebody went and uploaded a chuck of the TARDIS database into the archive servers, but just the ‘Weird Stuff’ folder.”

“Uh, how many Nanaimo bars are left?” Clara asked, suddenly keen to change the subject.

“I just told you, just a few. I said, it’s almost as if somebody went and uploaded part of the TARDIS database into the servers.”

“Boy, it’s hot in here.”

The Doctor narrowed his eyes. Everyone has a tell, and deflection was one of Clara’s biggies. “Clara, you didn’t…”

Clara then managed an impressive feat as the jaw dropped open on the polar bear head. Neither Clara nor the Doctor knew it could actually do that. Clara reached up and pushed the jaw closed. 

“What? No … I mean, OK, there was that time a few months back when I was out for dinner with the Osgoods and they asked me to tell them about the strangest creature you’d ever encountered. I told them about the dinner we’d had with Boris Johnson, but that didn’t seem to impress them. OK, so then there was the Mire—I showed them that Benny Hill Theme video, but they didn’t get the joke, I guess. Told them about Santa, of course, but they just accused me of making that one up, though one of them did suggest I pitch it to BBC Three as a rom-com.”

“A what-com?”

“Never mind. So … one thing led to another and, well, we had a few drinks … so … to cut a long story short, we ended up in the Black Archive and, well, I guess might have uplinked a little to the TARDIS to find some better examples.”

The Doctor handed out three Nanaimo bars to a young woman and her two toddlers as Clara said this, but he was scowling. “Clara, that’s not why I set up the Archive. It was only for specific Earth-based threats, present day. And the uplink was only for the most dire of emergencies, _not_ for looking through my photo album.”

Clara looked at the Doctor and then, finally tired of trying to talk to him through a mask, took the polar bear head off. Her hair was flattened down by the skullcap and sweat, and for a moment she enjoyed the relative cool of the breeze. She realized the Doctor wasn’t teasing anymore.

“I crossed a line, didn’t I?” she said.

“Clara, we agreed long ago, no secrets between us—except my real name and you know why that has to be kept locked away, otherwise I’d have told you that back when I had the fez fetish. I don’t really care if UNIT knows about Beep the Meep or any of that other garbage. Sil’s not likely to march an invading army of Vervoids down The Mall anytime soon, not for a couple millennia, anyway. But I’d have appreciated it if you’d asked me first, or told me after, not months later.” He counted two last Nanaimo bars. He gave one to Clara and then handed the other to the nearby pensioner who was still playing with his remote control car. “Let’s get back to the TARDIS.”

They walked back to the ship in silence, and Clara was more concerned about this silence than the fact people were staring at a tiny figure in a polar bear costume, the head of which was tucked under one arm while she sullenly nibbled on a chocolate bar (or something), and a grumpy grey-haired man who resembled a stick insect walked beside, clearly trying not to outpace her, but still equally clearly upset at her about something.

Once back inside the console room, Clara swivelled on her be-costumed heel and looked the Doctor in the eye. She’d had enough of the silent treatment. “You never tell me the rules, Doctor. How long have we been travelling together? How much have we been through? You never tell me the rules.”

“This has nothing to do with the rules, Clara. Not those rules, anyway.” The Doctor strode to the console and entered the co-ordinates for the quick hop to the costume shop. 

Clara was about to say something, but forgot what when her mobile chose that moment to ring. “God,” she muttered as she attempted to reach into the pocket of the yoga pants she was wearing under the polar bear gear, but realized that was impossible with everything zipped up. “Doctor, please.”

“Come here,” the Doctor said, as he went behind Clara and pulled down the zipper. Clara tried to pull her arm out so she could pull the top half down, but it was stuck.

“Damn! My watch is hooked into something,” she said. The phone kept ringing. “Doctor. I need you to reach in and get my phone.”

“What? No. Here, let me help you out of this…”

“Doctor, that could be the school, or gran, or the PM. Don’t be a prude, just reach in and grab the phone.”

Uncertainly, hesitantly, the Doctor reached into the back of Clara’s costume.

“Front pocket, left side,” Clara said. “Hurry up.”

As quickly as possible, and glad there was no one to witness the rather awkward ballet playing out (except the TARDIS, but he didn’t want to think about that right now), the Doctor darted his left hand around her front and located the phone, trying to ignore the warmth radiating from her body. His analytical mind interjected thoughts that the warmth was due to a mixture of the costume being warm, combined with the fact human body temperature was quite a bit warmer than a Time Lord’s. The fact the Doctor felt a twelve-per cent increase in his dual heart rate was clearly due to the fact there was only about one ring left before the phone would go to voicemail. OK, there was the phone. 

“Uh-oh.”

“What do you mean, uh-oh,” Clara said. “When you say uh-oh, civilizations fall.”

“My ring. I think it’s caught on something inside the costume. My hand’s stuck.”

“Oh, you have got to be kidding!” The phone had stopped ringing. “And we missed the call. Can’t you, like, sonic yourself free?”

“You know it doesn’t work like that, Clara. Jump up and down. That might dislodge me.”

“I am not jumping up and down. We probably already look like a _Britain’s Got Talent_ audition gone terribly wrong. And your hands are ice cold, by the way.”

The Doctor tried pulling, he felt things give a little but in a fabric-teary sort of way. “I don’t want to wreck the costume, Clara. Let me try something.”

The Doctor reached in with his right hand.

“We look insane,” Clara laughed. “At least I know you won’t be taking a snap of this for the Christmas party.”

The phone started to ring again. The Doctor took it out with his free hand and passed it to Clara, who took it precariously in one be-gloved hand and mashed the screen with the other paw as the Doctor went back to work trying to extract his ring without damaging the costume. 

“Hello? Hi Nina. Yup, all done. Handed them all out. Lots of interest, yup. _Ah_ , Doctor—I told you, your hands are cold! Actually, that’s not bad, keep it there for a second. What? No, it’s not what you think … No, seriously—ha ha, hey, that tickles!—no, no, the Doctor’s just helping me out of the costume. God, get your mind out of the gutter. This is _not_ Manchester all over again!” Then Nina asked something. “Yes, he is, but that’s not important right now … well, in a heartbeat, but he’s never asked me.” Literally in a heartbeat (that is, as she said the word) the Doctor finally freed the ring and withdrew his hands from inside Clara’s costume. And by the time Clara reached “he’s never asked me,” she found herself staring up at him. “Not that he’s likely to, now. Long story. Anyway, we’re just about to return the costume to the shop. I’ll call you later, yeah?” The Doctor took the phone and hung up for her.

“What did Nina have to say?”

“Oh, uh, she says thanks.”

The Doctor helped Clara free her tangled arm and she walked quietly to the wardrobe to complete changing out of the costume.

About fifteen minutes later, she returned to the console room, dressed in her normal clothes and freshened up after having stopped off for a quick shower along the way. She draped the polar bear suit over a railing and found the Doctor sitting in his reading chair, thumbing through his Two Thousand-Year Diary.

“Doctor, I’m s-”

“Don’t finish that sentence, Clara. I want to give you something first. Be right back.” He got up from the chair and headed down to the workspace on the lower level, taking the diary with him. Clara knew better than to follow him. She saw a few bright flashes from below and, a few moments later, he returned. Now he had two identical books in his hand.

The Doctor handed Clara one of the books: an identical copy of his Two Thousand-Year Diary. “This is me, Clara. Well, that’s not completely accurate. There’s a lot of me that’s not in there, but most of the important stuff is in here. And the Black Archive isn’t getting a copy of this.”

Clara turned the book over in her hands and flipped through the pages. 

“I had the TARDIS make a duplicate of my diary. For you.”

“It’s in English.” Clara had assumed it was written in High Gallifreyan or Latin or some other language, but, to her surprise, it was simply neatly written English, and not TARDIS-translated English, either. When she read TARDIS-translated words, they always felt a bit fuzzy.

“English is a more poetic language than High Gallifreyan and it doesn’t take five minutes to write out a word like ‘custard,’ either.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Clara said. “Thank you for this. But … why?”

“I was thinking about what you said. About not knowing the rules. And I was also thinking that I’m being selfish. What possible reason could there be for you, the Osgoods, or anyone else not to know about Terileptils or Klepton Parasites or Trods? It’s not as if I have any need to keep that information bottled up.”

“But what about me linking the TARDIS to …”

“Do you really think the Old Girl would allow you to do anything like that without permission? Or allow anyone to upload—intentionally or otherwise—any truly sensitive information, like how to build a time machine or next week’s National Lottery numbers? Trust me, the best have tried. Everything you uploaded was okayed by the TARDIS.”

“So you’re not mad, then?”

“Only about you not asking me first, Clara.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say that. Just promise me you’ll ask next time.”

“I promise.” Clara flipped through the diary. She wasn’t surprised to confirm that, yes, it did indeed have more pages on the inside than it appeared to have from the outside. “So … am _I_ in here?”

“Everyone I’ve ever known is in there. And I promised you nearly no secrets. So, you might find some … private thoughts.”

“Oooh … _Fifty Shades of TARDIS_?” Clara teased.

“No that’s in my other diary,” the Doctor replied with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Clara regretted the joke. 

“Doctor, you don’t have to give this to me. I don’t need to know everything and if there are things you don’t want me to know about … your thoughts about me, or anybody else, that’s fine.”

“I have nothing to hide.”

The Doctor pulled a lever on the console and the TARDIS exited the vortex where it had been in a holding pattern as Clara changed, materializing around the corner from the costume shop.

“You relax, Clara,” said the Doctor. “I’ll take the costume back.” He scooped the outfit into his arms, but then realized he didn’t have an extra hand free to carry the head. So he popped it over his own head instead, gave Clara a playful “ _Growl_!” that made her laugh and headed off to the shop.

***

Alone now, Clara looked at the diary. She knew the Doctor had placed great trust in her and wondered if anyone else had a copy of this book anywhere in time and space. She flipped to a page at random and smiled as the Doctor ranted hilariously about carrot juice (she could only imagine how many words he’d devoted to the subject of pears). 

Another page made her frown as the Doctor pondered the ethics of time travel after having nearly committed genocide against the Daleks before they were even created, despite the ramifications that would have had for Time itself. The page had a note, clearly added later, but in the same hand—the Doctor’s handwriting never changed over time, she realized—and the note said, “ _The Time War started here. My fault._ ”

Another diary page didn’t have any words at all, just a lovingly detailed portrait of a young blonde woman with an intense expression but a wide smile—Rose Tyler. Clara quickly thumbed through the book and realized there were portraits of other women scattered throughout. A few she recognized, a few she didn’t. One she knew was his granddaughter, Susan. One was Sarah Jane. Another was of a fellow Time Lord, Romana. There was River, of course. Another named Charley. She thumbed towards the blank-pages end and saw her own face looking back. She recognized the short bob hairstyle—it was the one she’d worn the day they’d travelled on the _Orient Express_ in space. The day they’d reconciled. The day she realized that she still…

Her eyes were drawn to five words written in light pencil at the bottom of the page next to what looked like a small moisture mark. She’d seen this type of stain before … on the thank-you notes she’d sent to well-wishers after Danny’s funeral. The Doctor couldn’t have been … could he?

She read the words again. 

_She came back to me._

Clara remembered his smile that day. There were many things she regretted from that time, top of the list being lying to Danny. If she’d come clean, he probably would have understood. Or maybe it would have ended between them. A moot question now, of course. But one thing she didn’t regret was seeing the Doctor beam a bright smile at her when she decided not to leave him after all. 

And then she turned to the last filled-in page of the diary and was surprised to see an entry from that day. From only a few minutes earlier, too.

_Was mad at Clara for about five minutes. Decided instead to replicate this diary so she’d have her own copy. Realized she’s probably reading these words now. And these too. And these. And now she’s saying…_

“Get to the point, Doctor,” Clara chuckled.

… _She deserves to know who I am. What I’ve done. Good and bad. Hopefully mostly good. Captain Grumpy never bothered with the diary, thank god. Clara doesn’t realize she’s a part of me now. As much a part of me as anybody else has ever been. She shouldn’t have to ever scavenge to know about my life. So here it is, Clara … my diary. Keep it safe. It’s part of you now._

The Doctor came through the TARDIS doors with a three-foot-long inflatable shark with Hanna-Barbara eyes under one arm.

Clara slammed the diary shut with a start and took a deep breath to compose herself before she spun around to face the Doctor and smiled.

“Doctor! What’s with the shark?”

“Clara! So glad you’re still here! I found us a new companion! Meet Sonny Jr.!”

“But he’s—it’s—just an inflatable shark!” Sonny Sr. had been a stuffed swordfish the Doctor had adopted as a companion during a previous adventure. Clara made a mental note to look him up in the diary to see if the Doctor was being serious. With the Doctor, you never knew…

“You’d be surprised how useful an inflatable shark can be around here,” he said.

“I’m surprised you didn’t buy the polar bear costume for your wardrobe,” Clara laughed as the Doctor placed Sonny Jr. in a position of honour on the upper level, where he could survey the console from above. Oh yeah, Clara thought, Sonny Jr.’s not long for this world.

“Funny you should mention it …” the Doctor began.

“You _did_ buy the polar bear costume! Where is it?”

“I arranged to have it delivered to the Osgoods’ house with a note attached: ‘For the Archive. Will explain later.’ I figure it’ll give the UNIT scientists something to ponder over.”

Clara laughed. “You like taking the piss out of the Black Archive, don’t you?”

“Remember when we were there with Bonnie, there was an entire caretaker’s trolley with mop, bucket, broom, the whole nine yards?”

“Sort of?”

“Do you honestly think UNIT would allow custodial staff into one of the most top-secret rooms on the planet? Even with the mind-zap thingy?”

“Come to think of it, it did seem a little out of place.”

“It was one of the first things I had put in there when the Archive was set up. Alistair never did cotton on, but Benton and Yates thought it was a gas.”

“Your 1970s or ’80s are showing, Doctor. So it was just a gag?”

“To this day, UNIT’s convinced I managed to force a shape-shifting parasite into the form of a trolley and made it inert. I left instructions that the only way for it stay that way is once every few years someone has to run the trolley up and down the entrance hallway three times. I’ve got the video if you want to see it.”

“You’re awful, you know that? So what’s the story going to be for the costume?”

The Doctor spread his hands theatrically. “Invasion of the Smol Beans.”

“Ooh … sounds serious.”

“It was, my dear Clara. And the only way to stop it was that you had to put on the polar bear costume and distract the smol beans, because with the costume on you resembled their queen, and meanwhile I did some jiggery pokery to long-range transmat them back to their home planet of … uh … Steve.”

“Steve?”

“I’ll give that name a bit more thought before I send the details to the Osgoods. Regardless, you, Miss Clara Oswald, will get full credit for saving the world.”

“Again,” Clara said, proudly.

“Again.”

Clara nodded. “Glad I could be of assistance.”

“That’s why I pay you.”

“Yeah, you _still_ don’t pay me.”

“I pay you in adventure, romance and action. Does that count?”

Clara caught that middle word (as you no doubt did yourself) and cocked an eyebrow.

“Romance?”

“So, where to?” the Doctor deflected. “It’s still Saturday as far as you’re concerned. You’ve still got the rest of the weekend—or the rest of the month, depending where we end up—before you have to be back at school and explain to your kids why you were marching up and down the South Bank in a polar bear costume.”

“OK. First stop: Nanaimo, British Columbia, so we can get some _real_ Nanaimo bars. And then, why don’t we go and save a planet, just for fun?”

Clara put her arms around the Doctor and squeezed, placing her head on his shoulder as she did so. 

“That sounds like a perfect Saturday night,” the Doctor said.

“Yeah. And besides—you and me, we have a lot of blank diary pages to fill, don’t we?”

“That, my Clara, is so very true.”

**Author's Note:**

> Beep the Meep is a popular, if somewhat infamous, character created for the Doctor Who Magazine comic strip. This story also makes reference to some of the more infamous creatures and races encountered by the Doctor on TV. Klepton Parasites and Trogs originated way back in the 1960s TV Comic comic strip. Charley Pollard travelled with both the Eighth and Sixth Doctors (in that order - timey-wimey, after all) in the Big Finish audio dramas. Sonny is a reference to the Titan Comics storyline "Clara Oswald and the School of Death".
> 
> Grumpy International Polar Bear Day might be a real thing. As the Doctor says, google it.
> 
> PS. Clara's definition of "smol bean" is a bit off, but that's intentional (see Smol Bean II).


End file.
